Thunderstorms
by ThisBookBelongsTo
Summary: Based on tumblr prompt: 'John hates thunderstorms - they remind him of bombs and mines going off.' Possible trigger warnings: shellshock, PTSD, and flashbacks to Afghanistan, non-graphic. Johnlock.


**Based on this Tumblr Prompt: 'John hates thunderstorms - they remind him of bombs and mines going off.'**

**This fic is brought to you by a mad person. A mad person who does not own anything but the plot. Not that there actually is a plot. It's basically just Johnlock. Cute, angsty, Johnlock – now with added fluff. You're welcome.**

Light illuminated the window in a magnesium-white flash that sent pre-emptive shivers down John's spine. He threw the curtains closed, hoping Sherlock wouldn't notice his haste and ask embarrassing questions. To be honest, John wasn't even sure the other man knew he was in the room. He looked across at his flatmate, noting the familiar 'if you disturb this train of thought you will join the other dismembered specimens in the fridge' pose, he relaxed slightly. Sherlock never paid attention to the real world when he was busy inside his own head.

Even so, he found himself treading softly as he passed the sofa. All John wanted was to go to his room, lock the door and pretend he didn't exist until the storm was over. So far it had been relatively tame, but the forecast predicted much worse by the end of the night, and John didn't want anyone to see him if that happened; especially not Sherlock.

He was one step away from his bedroom when the unmistakeable tones of one bored consulting detective rang out across the flat. "For future reference, the floorboard near the table creaks." John sighed, suppressing a groan as he pointedly ignored the observation and slammed the door shut between him and Sherlock. Thank God. A peal of thunder chose that moment to fill the air with sound, and suddenly John didn't care about his friend's snide remarks any more. Dust swirled around his head, sand grains scratching at his exposed face as he shielded his eyes with one arm. Years of training forced him to the ground, dropping face-down and making himself as invisible as possible. Moments later, another explosion filled the air with dirt and shrapnel. He felt the debris tearing at his clothes. Heard the raw screams of at least one man whose reflexes were slower than his own. John thought perhaps that he was screaming too, but he couldn't be sure. His throat was sore from the effort but his words were lost to the storm.

Radio silence greeted him from the rest of the patrol. Angry static that buzzed in his ear and filled him with panic. Then a voice, indistinct at first, cutting into his consciousness. John didn't recognise the speaker but at that moment he didn't care; he was lost, and alone, and probably about to die, and somehow he trusted him. Whoever he was. John listened carefully, focusing on the faint words as a detonation to his right made the ground beneath him shake. The explosions were getting closer…

"John?" The voice knew his name. That was comforting, somehow. Perhaps he wouldn't have to die completely alone.

"John, listen to me. You need to listen; it's not real." What was he talking about? 'Of course it's bloody real!' he wanted to shout, but there didn't quite seem to be enough air left in his lungs, so instead he listened. Closing his mind to the bloodshed and fire and the lingering scent of death and sulphur in the sand-filled air, John listened to the voice on the radio.

"I've got you," it was saying, and a strange warmth seemed to wrap itself around him, right up against his back, his front… Under the pack he carried, under all the weapons and the armour. Warm, invisible arms, cocooning him against the ongoing storm. "Please, John," and now he had to strain his ears to hear the whispered words, "it's okay. I've got you, don't worry, the storm will pass." John anchored himself to the truth of this stranger's honeyed tones and clung on as though his life depended on it. All he was aware of was the voice, warming him and keeping him from the flying bullets and flesh, and all the horrors he had seen in this place.

"You're okay, you're fine, just breathe. Just breathe for me, nice and steady… There we go. Come on now John, it's all over. You're safe. I've got you."

Slowly John became aware that the dust flying around his head had calmed, and the sound of gunpowder had receded to a distant crackle like the whisper of his radio. He raised his head with all the caution of a trained soldier, only to find himself caught completely off-guard by the pair of steel blue eyes only an inch or two from his face. Sherlock noticed John's eyes focusing on his face and began to relax. "John," he breathed.

"Sherlock?" John sounded confused, almost as much as he sounded afraid. "What…?"

"Thunderstorm," Sherlock reminded him gently, careful not to startle his flatmate in his state of shock. John's face cleared in relief and… embarrassment? "It's okay," Sherlock repeated, pulling his friend closer as he began to shake. He felt tears seep through his shirt and rubbed his hands in comforting circles on John's back.

When he finally spoke, John's voice was thick with emotion. "It was so real," he whispered. Sherlock waited. "I was there, and they were there, before…" John swallowed. "God," he laughed shakily, "it's pathetic. Stopped being frightened of thunderstorms when I was ten." Sherlock's grip tightened until his muscles trembled. Anger flooded his mind like a bloody tide. "Pathetic," John repeated to himself. "Better off like the rest of them." Sherlock snapped. Grabbing his friend by the shoulders, he forced John to meet his eye as he spoke, spitting to words like they were acid. "No," he hissed, "Not you. John Hamish Watson, never you. How dare you think that?"

John stared blankly into Sherlock's face, his words registering only as a flicker of nameless emotion behind his glazed expression. "John," Sherlock's breath caught in his throat. "You are not pathetic. You are the strongest, bravest man I have ever met. Never be ashamed of that. Your scars are a part of who you are, and they are as incredible, as… beautiful, as any other part of you. Please," he breathed, barely more than a whisper, "try and see what I see. Just once." Glass tears ran from John's unblinking eyes and Sherlock kissed them from his cheeks one by one. Then Sherlock was on his back, John's hands pinning him down as he assaulted his lips with a rain of hard, desperate kisses.

Eventually he was forced to withdraw for breath, cursing the human dependence on oxygen for survival. John sat back on his heels, surveying his dazed and ravaged flatmate gasping beneath him. A smile spread itself across his face. "Incredible," he echoed softly.

John wriggled down so that they were laid atop one another. "Thank you," he breathed. Almost instantly, Sherlock's arms were curled protectively around his back, his soft lips pressed to John's forehead. John relaxed into the embrace, safety and warmth enveloping him. Home.


End file.
